What urban circumstance leads to this moment, when deep in the heart of a city, all traces of human civilisation are missing? To write in this way, to present an image, whether developed from negative or memory, is to suggest a beginning. That which exists within the photograph however, has no history.
All traces of evolution and progression are lost, like a river that has seemingly evaporated. By hunting within dusty cardboard boxes at a fleamarket and finding two such photographs, without so much as an inked date on the reverse, we can recreate this erasure of all that has gone before.
When one occurrence resides within a determined route of occurrences, each one an effect to a cause, then a beginning is needed. Where no more causes can be found, at that precise juncture where an event refuses to be both progenitor and descendant, at that moment where the photographs are taken into gloved hands bound against the cold, we enter into a cosmogony - a narrative with which to understand the creation of order.
Beginnings are, however, never as they seem to be. The photographs, now purchased from the market, brought home and laid upon a wooden table under candlelight, are mere lapses within causality. They are no more beginnings than you or I can claim to be immaculately conceived. They are merely lapses in visible causality, artefacts of hidden human processes.